Wheeling Gull Isle haiplana

a trail of prints announced where skaigona had left the gathering. it was not new energies; it was not healing; it was desperation. the stricken nature of anselm's face, the way he had left with his father — tears blurred her thin face as she stumbled quickly in the futile steps of what she knew to be her final pilgrimage.
small game and birds fed her; late eggs; and then nothing, nothing as the tawny sand turned cold beneath her paws and she found the coastline empty, inviting her up to the tributary of rivers and out to where the landbridge loomed greyly in the dawn.
for a long moment, skaigona only stood weaving to and fro, staring at the dark lapping of waters she had not seen for so long.
one step. another. more than surreal, this return. 
for a singular purpose she had come back, and now as fever burst inside her arteries, skaigona knew she had been right. thin spit of ground dipped back into the saltwater; she turned her weakened head up toward the beautiful scent of sea lavender.
tears burned her eyes. caracal. caracal. i'm here. i've come back.
falling twice upon her climb, betrayed by legs that merely crumpled beneath her, skaigona fought her way to the base of the greenhills.
a shocked intake of breath was her only companion, as voice rose without power; "@Malakai?"